by Eloisa James
Rent?
The pineapple had been rented?
Who rented food?
“What next?” Lady Caroline said, laughing. “Will guests begin to swill the violets in the finger bowls?”
Who would have dreamed that a hostess could rent a pineapple for a dinner party? Yet Londoners did, apparently, and it had been profoundly gauche of Merry to request a slice.
Embarrassment flooded through her, spreading right to the very tips of her fingers. “I was not aware the pineapple was merely a decoration,” she said apologetically. “We do eat them back home. In fact, Mr. Kestril told me that King Charles the Second enjoyed the first pineapple grown in England back in 1675.”
The silence that followed was familiar; no one ever seemed interested in the sort of information that stuck in Merry’s memory.
“I am truly sorry for eating your centerpiece,” she added quickly.
Lady Caroline leaned toward her and patted her hand. “No one can blame you for your ignorance of polite society.”
Merry told herself that Lady Caroline was likely so poisonous because she was hungry. Starvation did that; it turned otherwise decent people into cannibals.
“If you don’t mind the hint, Miss Pelford, I would suggest that you stay away from sweet fruit. I’m sure you are hoping to look your best on your wedding day, and staying slender requires willpower.” Lady Caroline glanced down at her rake-thin body with satisfaction.
Maybe the lady was starving. Did it really give her the right to be so perishingly obnoxious?
Bess came to the rescue before Merry could say something she might regret. “Mrs. Bennett,” she said, smiling at their hostess, “I must reiterate my niece’s apology. I assure you that I will have a replacement pineapple delivered to your door tomorrow morning.”
Mrs. Bennett’s eyes narrowed, and Merry’s heart sank. Her aunt meant well, but the implicit reminder that Bess’s emeralds were not green glass was not well received.
“I have a wonderful idea,” Bess continued, widening her smile to include the whole circle. “We shall serve pineapple at my niece’s wedding breakfast. I am certain that tasting the fruit will change your minds. It is remarkably beneficial for the skin.”
Oh no.
Lady Caroline bridled, and the red patches around her jaw deepened in color. “Really, Mrs. Pelford,” she said shrilly. “One would almost think that you imagine a few pineapples could serve as an entrée to polite society.”
Her aunt had raised Merry to turn the other cheek, and never lower herself to respond to a snub. But now Merry felt a slow boil rising to the surface on her aunt’s behalf. It was one thing for Lady Caroline to be rude about America—but now she’d been hateful to the person Merry loved best in the world.
“I did not have that in mind,” Bess said calmly, picking up her teacup. “It would be a fine thing to be a part of the British nobility, of course, but not everyone has ambitions to that elevated station. As I’m sure you know, in America we favor democracy rather than a constitutional monarchy.”
As the person of highest birth in the room, Lady Caroline clearly took Bess’s indifference to the nobility as a personal insult. She tossed her head, like a horse about to rear on its hind legs. “You will forgive me if I point out that the smell of the shop lingering around your niece’s betrothal suggests that she has precisely that ambition. As I understand it, Lord Cedric’s tailor is already celebrating, though the wedding has not yet taken place.”
This audacious statement was followed by a long moment of dead silence—a moment in which Merry discovered that the civilizing effect of London air had its limitations. Resentment that she had repeatedly pushed to the back of her mind turned to a rage that swept her like a fever.
“As I understand it, Lord Cedric had a wide choice of heiresses,” she said, keeping her tone sweet. “I know we are all sympathetic, Lady Caroline, regarding any disappointment you might be feeling.”
“Mrs. Bennett,” Bess said in a slightly raised voice, “This tea is truly marvelous. Will you tell me where your housekeeper finds the blend?”
Brick color had flooded Lady Caroline’s cheeks. “At least I will not have to bribe people to attend my wedding breakfast with the promise of pineapples!”
“Well, spit,” Merry retorted, “I can’t say that it had occurred to me that a pineapple or two gave one entrée to the haut ton. Imagine what one could do with a crate of oranges.”
All the ladies turned their heads expectantly toward Lady Caroline—except Aunt Bess, who gave Merry a look that sent a shock of shame through her.
“I beg your pardon,” Merry exclaimed, at the very same moment that Lady Caroline turned her shoulder and whispered loudly to their hostess, “One cannot expect persons from the Colonies to understand civilized behavior.”
“I declare that I would be terrified to travel into the wilderness, where no rules of polite society pertain,” Mrs. Bennett agreed. “Why, I wouldn’t be surprised to find a naked savage serving the table instead of a footman in livery! I shouldn’t have the faintest idea how to conduct myself as, indeed, is clearly the case for some who travel to our shores.”
With this, Aunt Bess rose, gathering her shawl and reticule. “I have most unfortunately developed a headache, and I’m afraid that I must take my leave.”
All thought of further apology had flown from Merry’s head. She leaned forward and smiled at their hostess. “I do assure you, Mrs. Bennett, that were you to visit my country, you would find our customs easy to negotiate. For example, in America, you won’t find even a single stalk of asparagus on the table unless your hostess wishes you to eat it. And unless your hostess owns the vegetable in question.”
“Niece,” Bess said, with dreadful emphasis.
Merry felt a bit dizzy—though whether with triumph or shame, she wasn’t certain. She jumped to her feet as her aunt gave Mrs. Bennett a polite thank-you that avoided any mention of ornamental produce.
Their departure had the effect of spurring the other guests; by the time they made their way out the door, ladies were milling about and donning their pelisses; husbands had been summoned from cheroots and port.
“You were strongly provoked,” her aunt said the moment their carriage door closed and they were alone. “Nevertheless, I am sorely disappointed in you, Merry. I hope I have taught you that kindness is always the better alternative.”
“I do know that,” Merry said. Her anger was seeping away, and she began to feel acutely ashamed. Had she really taunted Lady Caroline because Cedric hadn’t chosen her as his bride?
“Mind you, Lady Caroline’s remarks were remarkably ill-bred,” Bess allowed.
“She implied I was fat, and she was unforgivably rude to you.”
“She wanted to provoke you, and you allowed it.”
“I know it doesn’t excuse what I said. I’m tired of remaining silent while people say ignorant things about America.”
“England is your mother’s country,” Bess pointed out. “What’s more, you have made a solemn promise to an Englishman to wed him and live here for the rest of your life. Your children will be English, Merry. For your own peace of mind, you must stop taking offense at such silliness. Mrs. Bennett’s remark said more about her character than about our country.”
Merry nodded.
“Unfortunately, I’m fairly sure the pineapple was rented in order to provide the illusion that Mrs. Bennett could afford to offer her guests exotic fruit.”
“Wasn’t it part of the decoration? She said that I had eaten the centerpiece.”
“I had the impression that Mrs. Bennett was disguising a harsher reality, and your misstep may inadvertently have caused the lady a financial hardship. I took a closer look and her pearls are definitely made of paste.”
The carriage turned a sharp corner and Bess lost her balance, pulling herself upright again with a muttered exclamation. “I shall never get used to these London streets! At any rate, I will send over a replacement pineapple
tomorrow. They are dear in Boston, but they must be an extravagance here.”
“I shall write Mrs. Bennett an apology,” Merry said unenthusiastically.
Bess nodded her approval.
“I suppose I can apologize to Lady Caroline in person.” That was not a conversation Merry was looking forward to.
“There is always a silver lining, my dear,” Bess said, more cheerfully. “We shall not receive any more invitations from Mrs. Bennett.”
They sat in silence while Merry thought over the conversation. “I do have one question,” she said at length. “Lady Caroline’s remark about my betrothal seemed very pointed.”
“Marriage is a commercial transaction for those in our station,” Aunt Bess replied. “You are an heiress, Merry, and it does no good to pretend that men don’t take it into account. Though as you know, your uncle structured your settlement so that your fiancé has no claim on your money until the marriage actually occurs.”
“But Lady Caroline made it sound as if Cedric had received money in return for his proposal,” Merry said. “She was only referring to the dowry, then?”
To her alarm, Bess hesitated.
“No,” Merry breathed.
“It isn’t the way it sounds,” her aunt said hastily. “Not a penny of your fortune has gone to your fiancé, and none shall until you’re fast married.”
“Then?”
“Your uncle did pay some of Lord Cedric’s bills.”
“Bills? What bills?”
“Oh, merely some accounts at the tailor’s and so on.” Bess waved her hand dismissively. “So that the two of you can begin married life with a clean slate.”
“How much money did Cedric owe?”
“As to that, I really couldn’t say. If your uncle wishes to make you a wedding present, he is well within his rights to do so.”
“The debts must have been quite substantial if everyone knows that they have been paid.” Merry straightened, and asked fiercely, “When exactly did Uncle Thaddeus pay those bills? Was it a condition of my betrothal?”
“Oh, goodness, no!” her aunt cried. “Never think that, my dear. Your uncle found out a week or so ago that Lord Cedric had a couple of annoyingly persistent creditors. He paid the debts and gave his lordship some sound advice about not going into arrears.”
That sounded like her uncle: generous to a fault, though prone to giving advice where it might not be welcomed.
In Boston, one did not order French gowns unless the money was readily available to pay the dressmaker. Cedric, it seemed, took a more cavalier attitude toward balancing his accounts.
“I’m certain it was a trifling amount,” her aunt concluded.
“You don’t think that I’ve once again betrothed myself to a man with no money?” Merry asked. She had a sinking feeling.
Bess shook her head firmly. “Your uncle made certain of that. Lord Cedric is not penniless. Though he does not currently live there, he owns a house in Berkeley Square, which is an excellent address. He has an income inherited from his mother. Your uncle wished to make the gesture of settling some minor debts, and I approve of it.”
The gentlemen had only just left their port when she and her aunt made their farewells, so Merry had done no more than nod and smile at Cedric. By now he would have learned about the pineapple fiasco, in fact, probably the moment the front door closed behind them.
Lady Caroline, if no one else, would detail every faux pas Merry made that evening, undoubtedly while announcing that the finger bowls were at risk.
Never mind what her aunt thought; her third betrothal was clearly in its death throes.
Their carriage became caught behind some farm wagons, and after a while Bess slumped into the corner and went to sleep.
Merry remained bolt upright, thinking about Cedric.
The problem was that her mind kept snapping back to the way the duke had looked at her when they encountered each other upstairs.
He had almost kissed her. But that didn’t mean she had the option of marrying him.
No man would ever marry a woman who was once betrothed to his brother. And no duke would marry someone like her. Not only was she American, but her reputation was already damaged; imagine what would happen if she discarded yet another fiancé.
She had only two choices.
She could marry Cedric, or she could jilt him and return to Boston.
Chapter Fifteen
That night Merry dreamed that the pineapple turned into a golden egg sitting on the table of an ogress who shouted “Fe, Fi, Fo, and Fum!” and threatened to grind her bones into a loaf of bread unless she turned the egg into an omelet. She woke up with an echo of that furious ogress in her ears.
George had hopped off the bed and was dancing around the feet of her maid, wagging his tail.
Lucy was at the window. “You must rise, miss,” she said, struggling to pull back the heavy velvet drapes. “Your aunt is making such a fuss as you wouldn’t believe. She sent a footman out for a peenacle and when he came back without one, she was not happy. Luckily, he finally managed to find two.”
“Not ‘peenacle,’ pineapple,” Merry said, swinging her legs over the side of the bed.
“That’s right, pineapple. You’d think they was made out of gold. They’re that dear.”
“So I understand,” Merry said with a sigh. George danced back over to her and rolled onto his back.
“The boy’s waiting out in the hallway for the puppy.”
“Where’s Snowdrop?”
“Mr. Pelford took her for a drive. That dog is a terrible flirt. She’s even trying to make up to Mr. Jenkins!”
Lucy liked Snowdrop, but she had not succumbed to George’s charm, probably because Jenkins was always on the alert for an impending accident. The household always took its tone from the butler.
Merry pulled on her wrapper, opened the door, and handed over the wriggling puppy.
“Your uncle is less than pleased that both pineapples were delivered to someone’s house, given how much they cost, but the missus said they were by way of apology.” Lucy’s eyes were gleaming with curiosity.
There was no need to keep it a secret; Merry supposed that the better part of fashionable London was aware of her faux pas by now. “Last night, at Mrs. Bennett’s house, I asked a footman for a slice of pineapple.”
Her maid’s eyes widened. “Are they poisonous?”
“Not at all; they’re delicious. The problem was that Mrs. Bennett had rented the pineapple. It was temporarily decorating the table on its way to another dinner party.”
Merry wasn’t the only one who hadn’t heard of rented food. Lucy just kept repeating, “Why, I never.”
As she waited for her bath to be filled, Merry added “Avoid Lady Caroline” to her etiquette list, and underlined it for emphasis. Just below it, she wrote, “Avoid pineapples.”
She kept thinking about those new rules while she soaked in the tub. They weren’t precisely matters of etiquette. They could be termed guidelines for survival.
All the same, she was losing faith in her list. She was exhausted by the pursuit of perfection. Miss Fairfax had probably been right: she wasn’t capable of cultivation of mind.
The truth was that Cedric didn’t want someone like her for a wife. If they married, she would be chipped into little pieces by his disapproval before their first anniversary.
She had to return the ring Cedric didn’t buy her. Her heart skipped a beat at the thought—but it didn’t crack. If anything, she felt relieved.
Recognition of her own fickle nature caused the most painful wrench in her heart. Twice before, she’d concluded that she could not bring herself to marry a man after solemnly promising to do so.
And now she had reached that conclusion a third time?
Maybe she was heartless and unable to truly love.
Or perhaps she was incapable of loving one man for her entire life. She had truly believed that she was in love with Bertie. She had loved his enthusiasm,
and the way he called her his “best girl.” And then she’d swooned over Dermot’s golden hair, the same as all the girls had. And then Cedric . . .
Yet in every case, she had discovered later that she didn’t really like, let alone love, her future spouse.
Not for the first time, she felt an aching wish for the mother she’d never known. Bess and Thaddeus were very dear, but they weren’t the same as parents.
Maybe that was the problem. She had a coldness in her heart from being orphaned. But it sounded like an excuse, the kind of thing a fickle woman would tell herself in order to soothe her guilty conscience.
She couldn’t stay in the bath forever, and in any case, the water had grown cold. It was time to get dressed and face the day.
She wouldn’t be surprised if she were about to get those callers her aunt had missed—though now they would come for the wrong reasons.
Just in case, she dressed for a jury of her peers, putting on a blush-colored morning gown copied from a Parisian fashion plate. After the debacle of her first broken engagement, she had discovered that French fashion was a great help in assuaging anguish.
The gown was styled for morning wear, but it was silk rather than the usual muslin, and it fell gracefully from its high waist and swirled a little at her ankles. But the coup d’éclat were the matching shoes. They were made of pink kid, slashed to reveal stripes of the same glossy silk as her gown.
Not only were they exquisite, but they had heels. She fancied that her bosom looked a bit more in proportion when she wore them.
Merry stared at the glass and felt more like herself than she had in a month. Last night she’d lost her temper, but all the same, she had drawn a line in the sand.
In Boston and New York, people liked her. They considered her reasonably witty and kind, and not unattractive.
But in London . . .
English polite society determined one’s worth by criteria at which Merry would never excel. Her awkward manners and frizzled hair all seemed of a piece, somehow. Right then and there, she made up her mind that there would be no more curling irons. Her natural curls would have to do.